


hits like ecstasy

by peantutbutter



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Anal Sex, Canon-Typical Violence, Clubbing, Dine and Dashing, Fake AH Crew, Love at First Sight, M/M, Mini-Heists, Pre-Fake AH Crew, Recreational Drug Use, References to Arson, Semi-Public Sex, joyriding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:01:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25600255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peantutbutter/pseuds/peantutbutter
Summary: The night Michael meets an Angel, he’s lost in a haze of drugs, alcohol, and music.
Relationships: Gavin Free/Michael Jones, background Lindsay Tuggey Jones/Meg Turney
Comments: 1
Kudos: 38





	hits like ecstasy

**Author's Note:**

> *All RPF disclaimers apply. This is in no way indicative of how I perceive the relationships between the real life Achievement Hunter staff (or former staff), nor is it representative of how I want real life to be. The characters portrayed are based on their GTAV personas and the fanon lore built around them. This is in no way meant to offend or make anyone uncomfortable.
> 
> **Long time, no fic. This one got away from me a little bit, so it took longer than anticipated. Anyway, here's some Mavin.

The night Michael meets an Angel, he’s lost in a haze of drugs, alcohol, and music. It isn’t a habit of his, to end up in such a state, but now and then, the weight of everything he’s done catches up with him. It bears down on his shoulders, crushing him until he crawls into a nightclub on his hands and knees begging to forget. The blood staining his hands, the people he’s killed, the lives he’s ruined — his morals may be skewed and broken, but a large enough shred remains intact, and that’s enough to send him chasing nights of bliss when the guilt starts suffocating him. 

He’s sitting at the bar, snorting lines of coke when he sees him. The music pounds so loudly he can’t think, but he doesn’t need to in order to know that the creature walking towards him is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. All long, slender limbs and sharp lines; equal parts graceful and lethal, glowing under the strobing lights. It makes Michael’s eyes hurt, but he can’t tear them away. He’s hypnotized by the swaying of his hips, the way his black pants and dark blue button up hug tight to his body, leaving little to the imagination. 

They lock eyes, and Michael’s already racing heart is madly trying to escape his chest. It lunges forward with every beat, strains against his ribcage as it’s beckoned towards the beautiful stranger. He moves with practiced ease — back straight and chin held high. People part around him without even realizing it, his effortless, regal demeanor demanding they make way. 

Michael’s world focuses to a fine point that begins and ends with the entity in front of him. There’s something familiar about him in the way he looks, the way he moves. The Angel isn’t like everyone else in the club. He’s dangerous, Michael realizes when he flashes him a grin that’s so sharp it cuts him to his core. Too bright. Too many teeth.

He’s like him. “Devil child,” his parents used to call him. “Hellbound,” they said. And maybe they’re right, but the devil was once an angel too, and if there’s anything he’s learned, it’s that his namesake is the most powerful one there is. Which only makes him all the more dangerous as a devil. This Angel may still have his glittering wings; he may still have that golden halo adorning his head, but there’s no denying that he, too, is damned. 

It’s ironic, how the City of Saints harbors nothing but sinners.

The Angel slides into the seat beside him, and suddenly there’s a drink in front of him. Then it’s in his hand, and then it’s in his mouth. Vodka burning him from the inside out, soothed only by the faint taste of honey and the Angel’s tongue sliding against his. 

He’s dragged onto the dance-floor, into the pulsing, humming throng of bodies. Beads of sweat roll down his skin as he moves, undulating in time with the music. It’s so unbearably hot, an exquisite, searing sort of burn that sets his blood ablaze. He grips the Angel’s hips, pulling him in tight as they dance. Colors and lights swarm his vision, and every time they change, he’s somewhere new.

The world is Blue, and the Angel is playing with the collar of his jacket, pulling and swaying in time with the thrumming music.

The world is Purple, and they’re grinding against each other. Fuck, he’s so hard, it hurts. He groans, and he faintly hears a musical, bell-like laugh that can only be coming from the Angel.

The world is Red, and he has his Angel pressed up against the wall, crying out as he marks up the column of his throat and shoves a hand unceremoniously down his pants. He already knows he’s going to Hell. Might as well have as much fun as he can and sully an Angel on his way down.

The world oscillates quickly between black and white, and he’s buried in a wet, clenching heat. The Angel’s long, thin limbs wrap tightly around him. His arms wrap around Michael’s shoulders, nails clawing through his shirt, scratching his back. Thin legs squeeze Michael’s waist, hips rocking back and forth, fucking himself on Michael’s cock and seeking any sort of friction against his abs. 

His thrusts are hard, rough, more about taking his own pleasure and enjoying the way the Angel’s tight walls wrap tight around his dick. But when his Angel cries out in ecstasy, it sends a shiver down his spine. He tags that same spot again and again, and his Angel starts to sing. It’s the most wonderful sound he’s ever heard. Strangled shouts and whines pitch higher and higher, his back curving into a perfect arch. Michael mouths wetly at his neck, not daring to silence him, no matter how much he wants to swallow that song for himself. No one else can hear him plead “ _harder, faster, more_ ,” over the deafening music. A prayer — a hymn — just for him.

With one hand braced against the wall, Michael reaches between them. He takes the Angel’s member in his hand — hard, and twitching, and slick with precum — and all it takes is a few heavy pumps before he coaxes out the Angel’s orgasm. He comes with one last hoarse shout, chest heaving, and walls spasming around Michael’s cock as both their shirts are stained with ropes of cum. It’s enough to send him over the edge. He’s of sound enough mind to know it’s generally considered rude to come inside someone without a condom on, and he barely manages to pull out before he spills his own seed. It paints the Angel’s thighs and the wall behind him, splotches of electric blue glowing under the club’s black lights. 

They cling to each other, hips twitching in the aftershocks and breathing in one another’s scents. His Angel smells sweet and spicy, of vanilla and cinnamon, and something vaguely woodsy and clean. It’s overwhelming and expensive, and it makes his brain buzz, getting drunker each time he inhales. God, no other high is going to be quite like this.

The Angel’s legs unfold around him, and he helps ease those trembling limbs onto the floor. He hisses in a breath as he carefully tucks himself back into his jeans, still far too oversensitive. The Angel does the same, and Michael can’t help but stare, mouth slightly agape as he pulls himself together. Calm and composed, the only signs of their opportunistic sin are the glowing stains on his slightly rumpled shirt. 

A finger tilts his chin up. He meets the Angel’s eyes, and there’s that smile again. Sparkling, wicked, perfect. He wishes he knew what color they were, wishes he were more of a poet so he could write sonnets about touching one of Heaven’s creatures. Then those long, nimble fingers are running through his head of curls, switching their position. Michael is the one with his back against the wall, and the Angel is pulling him in for another kiss. This one is slow, lazy, and when he hums contentedly against Michael’s lips, it’s like a lullaby. His eyes slip shut as the Angel’s tongue rocks him to sleep. Calming, soothing, relaxing. Tension melts away from his aching body, and his mind grows fuzzy. He’s weightless, lost in the throng of people and music.

He wants to ask his name, his number, his anything. He wants to know who to pray to when the nights get too dark and too red with fury and blood. He wants to know whose name to call when he has no company other than his hand.

“Who are you?” He rolls the words clumsily around his mouth and off his tongue, but when he opens his eyes the Angel is gone.

* * *

Michael Jones is not a good man. 

He’s loud. He’s violent. He’s angry, and he has a knack for destruction that tended to leave a trail of burning buildings and broken bodies in his wake. He hits hard, fast, and he sets what’s left ablaze, because sometimes he can only feel something when something else hurts.

“You’re going to burn yourself out someday,” Burnie told him when they first met. “You’re either going to be snuffed out like a candle, or you’ll go out in a blaze of glory. It’s up to you which end you’re going to meet.” That was back when he had just moved to Los Santos from Jersey. He had nothing then. No money, no job, no prospects. All he had were his two hands and a lust for blood that more often than not got him into trouble. 

He hadn’t known he had beaten the shit out of one of Burnie’s guys that fateful day. The dude just pissed him off, and the fists came flying. The next thing he knew, three other guys had dog-piled him, he was being dragged to the back room of the bar he was in, and he was dumped at the feet of one of Los Santos’ most powerful businessmen. His life could have ended that night, his flame doused with his own blood. But instead he was offered a job. One that gives him an outlet for his rage and sates his violent urges. No more keeping it pent up inside, bottled until he bursts under the pressure like he did in school. 

Which leads him here: standing guard outside the back room of another bar, waiting for his boss to finish a meeting. He doesn’t know who owns the place. It’s not Burnie’s, and, really, he’s not paid enough to care. Some business partner. That’s really all that matters. He’s just here to make sure no one tries to barge in, and to beat the shit out of them if they do.

The bar is a goddamned dive. Shitty yellow flickering bulbs dimly light the place, and there’s a haze of dust and cigarette smoke hanging in the air. The beer is cheap and tastes like piss, and the jukebox is playing classic rock through tinny speakers. This isn’t the kind of place where one goes to have drinks with friends. It’s the place where one drinks to wallow in self pity. Older patrons slump miserably over their drinks. Only the occasional clacking of pool balls breaks up the droning self loathing.

At least, that is until a glass shatters.

Michael flicks his gaze to the other corner with the billiards table. Standing around it are three figures. A slim young man wearing clothes far too expensive to be a frequent at a shithole like this, and two others who definitely look like they belong here. The skinny man’s back is to Michael, so he can’t see his face, but the smug aura he’s exuding is obnoxiously visible. Hell, Michael’s not even over there and he kind of wants to punch him in the face. He’s sure the other two scowling men towering over the guy are ready to do the same.

“Aww, c’mon lads,” the guy says, bouncing his cue stick back and forth between his hands. “What do you think? Best two outta three? Double or nothing?” There’s something oddly familiar about his voice. Smooth and melodic, yet somehow grating. Like he could spend hours listening to it, but find every second excruciatingly annoying. 

The larger guy, a tattooed man who looks like his face was rearranged by a few too many bar fights, crosses his arms. “I think we don’t take kindly to thieves around here.” 

“No one made you put the money down, love,” the hustler says, maybe a little too cavalier about the very serious threat he’s facing. 

The other man, bald, shorter, and with the sleeves torn off his dirty t-shirt, grabs the scrawny guy by his shirt and violently shoves him against the pool table. “You give us our money back or I swear to God, I’ll bash that nose of yours so far in, it’ll be coming out the other side of your head.”

Now, Michael’s not normally one to interfere in business that isn’t his, but he’s got a low tolerance for unfair fights. Sure, the little bitch probably deserves the beat-down, but there’s no way his skinny ass could take both of them at once. Call it a twisted sense of justice or a bizarre protective streak. He may be a piece of shit, but he’s not a complete monster. 

“Hey!” he shouts, shoving off the wall he’d been leaning against. All eyes turn to him, even the patrons at the bar. “Leave him alone.” A simple command, one that should leave little room for argument. The silence that falls is a tense one. If Michael were anyone else, it might have intimidated him. Might have made him consider backing down. But Michael isn’t anyone else, and he’s fully aware that no matter what these two dipshits do or say, he’s the scariest motherfucker in here right now. You can take a boy from Jersey, but you can’t take the Jersey away from him. 

Tats just scoffs and takes a step towards him, blocking him from his buddy. He puffs his chest, sizing Michael up. He can see the exact moment he decides that he can take him. “Mind your own damn business,” he says.

Michael doesn’t flinch back, not even when he smells the stench of stale cigarettes and old beer on the guy’s breath. He pulls his hands from his jacket pockets. No one has made any moves to start a fight yet, but his fingers twitch for action. He casually cranes his neck to look over Tats’ shoulder, lazily raking his gaze over Baldy and the hustler. Sighing, he levels Tats with a bored look. “C’mon man, just let him go.”

Tats’ lip curls into an ugly snarl of a smile. “And what are you gonna do about it?”

The Hustler yelps and the distinct sound of a fist coming in contact with jawbone resounds in a sickening crunch. If Baldy hadn’t been holding the other twig of a man up, he would have fallen to the ground with the force of the punch. 

“Let me through,” Michael growls, his eyes narrowing. 

“No,” Tats says. 

All the other patrons have returned to their drinks by now, shoulders hunched and heads tucked low. Even the bartender pointedly ignores them, not wanting to get involved. That’s as much of a “go ahead” as he’s going to get. Nodding his head, he lets his shoulders slump and go slack. Makes it look like he’s giving up and no longer presenting himself as a threat. “Okay,” he says, and Tats smirks.

Then he throws a right hook that sends Tats to the floor. It’s a flurry of fists and knuckles striking soft flesh and hard bone. He rushes towards Baldy, slamming his elbow down on his arms. He forces him to loosen his grip on the skinny guy. The thief leaps over them, making his escape, when Michael tackles him to the ground. His pool cue clatters on the table. Good. He’s out of the way. Michael doesn’t have to worry about him getting caught in the crossfire. 

He gets a few good strikes in on Baldy’s face before Tats has his arms looped around his shoulders, pulling him off his buddy and restraining him. It gives Baldy enough time to get up and rear back for a punch. Michael kicks his legs out. Hits Baldy square in the chest and sends him stumbling back. He’d hoped the force would be enough to push Tats back too, but the man holds him steady. 

Heel to the toes. Head thrown back to crush a nose. It’s as good a combo as he has with his arms unable to make contact with anything. Tats lets him go with a grunt, just in time to get socked in the face by Baldy. It staggers him just enough, leaves his vision swimming and mind disorientated. Another punch strikes Michael’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him. He doubles over, and there are more and more pounds and jabs at his back and sides. 

He’s curled in on himself, protecting his soft belly and all the organs inside. They can’t see the way he grins with wild eyes and blood-stained teeth. Shoulders hunched and arms tucked in to defend his ears and face. This is exactly what he wanted, exactly what he’d been itching for all night. The tang of copper against his tongue and back of throat. The sharp pain of every hit and the dull, burning throb that comes after. Any night that leaves him painted in purples and red is a good night. Any night that leaves his opponents black and blue is even better. 

They shove him towards the pool table, and that’s their final, fatal mistake. He snatches up the fallen cue stick and swings it around. It’s so fast, one could hardly see it, but the deafening _cracks_ and subsequent stunned silence are enough to let even those who weren’t paying attention know that the game had changed. Red slashes cut across their cheek, blood dripping from the cuts. The two men clutch the sides of their faces, eyes watering as they stare at him with dumb stupefaction. 

It’s short lived as he brings the stick down once more. He swings at Tats’ knees. The stick snaps with another _crack_ and Michael’s tempted to stab at them with the raw, jagged points. He decides against it. Burnie would be pissed if he killed someone in an associate’s bar, so he tosses the pieces away instead. He moves to straddle Tats’ hips, and just lays into him with his fists. His vision tunnels. All he sees is red. All he wants to do is beat this man’s face to a pulp. 

Screams and shouts echo distantly around him. Satisfied that Tats isn’t getting up anytime soon, he hones in on the other man. Baldy is scrambling towards the door. Michael stands and reaches for one of the pool balls. He lines up his shot, arm reared back, ready to throw. Then a large calloused hand grips his wrist. 

Whipping around, he snarls, but all the wind is sucked out of him when he sees the stern look on Burnie’s face. “Drop it,” he orders, and gives Michael’s wrist a solid squeeze. 

With a whimper, the ball slips from Michael’s fingers. 

Down dog.

The ball lands on the pool table with a clatter.

Good dog. 

“That’s enough,” Burnie says. He releases Michael’s wrist, and his hand drops. His shoulder’s slump and he ducks his head, face flushing with embarrassment. Burnie yanks him away from the groaning man bleeding on the floor and pulls him aside. “Jesus Christ, Mikey. Calm the fuck down.”

He stares at the floor. “Sorry, boss,” he says quietly. 

“You’re goddamn lucky neither of those guys are Ramsey’s men,” Burnie chastises. Michael swallows thickly and glances up at him with an apologetic look. He doesn’t say _I’m sorry,_ but the look is as close as he ever comes. The scowl on Burnie’s face softens slightly, and he huffs a sigh. “You and I are going to have a talk about this later.”

Michael nods. “Yes, sir.”

“Good man,” Burnie says. He claps a hand on the back of Michael’s neck and gives him an affectionate squeeze. “Go get the car.”

“Yes, sir.”

Burnie releases him, and he shuffles awkwardly towards the door. Stupid. Idiot. He shouldn’t have gotten involved. Skinny idiot and his bloodlust be damned. Ever since joining up with Burnie, he’s gotten better at controlling his violent urges. Beating up complete strangers is dumb as shit and only leads to trouble. He knows better than that. Stupid skinny bitch should have been smarter about his hustling. 

Something tugs on the sleeve of Michael’s jacket, making him stop in his tracks. Slowly, he turns around, shocked to see aforementioned skinny bitch standing before him. He finally gets a good look at the man’s face, and it takes his breath away. Wide, green eyes, and angular features, his face and body are made of sharp lines that are ever so gently softened with the slightest curves. The fine material of his shirt is rumpled, and the starts of a bruise is beginning to mottle the skin on his jaw. But he makes it work. Makes it look good. Intentional, even. 

Though what’s most remarkable isn’t even the man himself, but rather the way he’s illuminated by the dingy lights. Flickering like the world’s shittiest halo, is a burst of light surrounding his head. And Michael knows it’s just because his big head is positioned right in front of a low hanging bulb, but it strikes him speechless. 

_Angel._

He stares dumbly at the man in front of him, unable to make his mouth work, let alone form a coherent thought. What are the fucking odds? His memory of that night might be fuzzy, but the image of his Angel is painted in his mind like its the fucking Sistine Chapel. He’s speechless. He didn’t think he’d ever see him again. Was beginning to doubt he existed at all. 

Fortunately, the Angel has words enough for both of them. He comes in babbling and it takes Michael a moment to decipher the rambling British accent. “—and I know you’re leaving, but I just wanted to say thank you. I could’ve handled it, but I’m glad you stepped in. So… thanks.”

And because brain isn’t working, and because his default is to be disproportionately rude, Michael answers with, “Yeah, well, don’t be a fucking idiot next time.” 

The man blinks, caught off-guard by the abrasive response. Then he smiles, and goddamn it’s fucking _radiant_. So warm, so genuine, so filled with intrigue and mischief. “Well,” he starts, reaching to straighten out Michael’s jacket. “If there is a next time, I’ll just have to make sure a knight in shining armor has my back, yeah?” That wicked grin, paired with the coy look he’s giving him and the playful touches sends a shiver down Michael’s spine. His mouth goes dry.

“Gavvy!” A well-dressed man with an almost comically curled mustache calls from across the bar. Michael recognizes him as Ramsey, one of Burnie’s associates. Right. That’s who he was meeting with. 

The British man — Gavvy. What a stupid name — whips his head around and gives him a quick wave before turning back to Michael. “Gotta go,” he says, and he gives Michael a playful shove towards the door. “See you ‘round, love.” 

Gavvy saunters away. Maybe Michael’s staring a bit more than he should. Maybe Gavvy’s flaunting how good his ass looks in those tight jeans. Maybe he knows that Michael’s staring. He’s still staring once he reaches Ramsey. Burnie is over there, concluding whatever business they have left and ending with pleasantries, but he catches Michael’s eye and frowns. “Car, Mikey. Now!”

Michael winces and quickly turns on his heel. The flush crawls up from his neck to his cheeks, turning him an embarrassing shade of pink. That melodic, irritating, bell-like laughter follows him outside the bar. Balling his hands into fists, he stuffs them into his pockets and hunches his shoulders as he makes his way towards where he parked Burnie’s car. 

Oh, this was bad. This was very bad. 

Angel — Gavvy — is one of Ramsey’s men. And, okay, it could be worse. He could’ve been a rival, but this is less than ideal. Burnie has carefully cultivated the image of a wealthy, law-abiding businessman — as much as a businessman can be law abiding. Sure, his closed door dealings are somewhat suspect, but everything he does is _technically_ legal. He’s a master of loopholes.

But Ramsey? Ramsey is a criminal through and through. Charming and charismatic, ruthless and ambitious, he’s the kind of person Michael could have very easily ended up falling in with if Burnie hadn’t found him first. And now one of Ramsey’s men knows that he likes to get a little coke-ed up on the side. Or at least, he probably knew. Maybe Gavvy was just as high as he was that night, but that’s not a risk Michael can take. 

Hopefully Gavvy keeps his mouth shut. 

At least until Michael figures out a way to talk to him first.

* * *

When Burnie calls him into his office out of the blue, he’s sure he’s being fired. He’d had one rage too many. He’s become more work than he’s worth. He’s become a liability to Burnie’s public image and has to be cut loose. This is it. He’s done for. You and your roommate pack your bags and move out of your apartment by the end of the day.

What he doesn’t expect is for Burnie lend his — ahem — talents out to Ramsey. 

Burnie is seated at his desk, a large piece of mahogany. Ramsey sits across from him, one leg crossed over the other in a plush armchair. His mind flashes to the Angel — to Gavvy — and his palms start to sweat. He swallows thickly around the lump in his throat. “You wanted to see me, sir?” 

“Ah, yes, Michael. Please come in,” Burnie says, motioning to the other armchair across from his desk. Nervously Michael takes the seat next to Ramsey. He sits ramrod straight, hands twitching nervously in his lap. 

Ramsey eyes him lazily, an amused smile quirking at the corners of his mouth. “Christ, kiddo, relax.”

That really does nothing to relieve Michael’s anxiety. It makes it worse, in fact. And it doesn’t help that Ramsey grin only widens the more Michael squirms in the chair. If Burnie takes notice to how twitchy he’s being, he doesn’t mention it. Mercifully, he gets down to business. “Michael, Mister Ramsey here has specifically requested your services.”

Michael stares at Ramsey in wide-eyed shock. “Why?”

“I heard how you protected one of my boys,” Ramsey says. “Was wondering if you’d mind doing it again.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“It’s a simple enough job. One of my boys needs to get close enough to some servers that are secured and, ah, well guarded, let’s say. I need you to make sure nothing happens to him.”

“Guard duty?” Michael clarifies.

Geoff shrugs. “Call it what you like. It’s only for a night, and if all goes well, it’ll be the easiest fifteen grand you’ll ever make.”

Michael’s eyes widen. “Fifteen grand?” he asks, because _fuck_ that’s a lot of money for playing bodyguard for a night. Something’s up. “What exactly is on those servers?”

“Corporate bank info? CEO’s dirty laundry? Fuck if I know. My boy says he needs to get close, and I trust him to do his job. So what do you say? One night. Fifteen-thousand dollars.”

Michael looks at Burnie, tries to read the inscrutable expression on his face. He’s never been invited to spectate any of his card games, but he knows a poker face when he sees one. Any signs of approval or lack thereof are carefully obscured. It’s a decision Burnie refuses to make for him. One that Michael has to make on his own. 

What is this? Some strange test of loyalty? Or is Burnie giving him the opportunity to pursue his own wants? To spread his wings, as it were. 

Fuck him, he needs to stop overthinking things. Burnie and Geoff are business partners for a reason. One might even go so far as to call them friends. Oh, what the hell. Fifteen grand is fifteen grand. 

“Sure. Why the hell not?”

And that’s how he ends up freezing his ass off in the middle of the rain on a Tuesday night. He’s been standing at the meet-point, a sheltered bus stop, waiting for Geoff’s hacker to arrive. Several buses have come and gone, and now all that’s running is the hourly night bus. He sighs and watches the cloud his breath makes get carried away in the wind. If there weren’t so much money on the line, he probably would have walked away hours ago. 

He waves yet another night bus along, and not long after, a thin man with a backpack comes and takes a seat next to him under the shelter. This isn’t the first person to come sit down, but he’s the first one to speak. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Michael’s head snaps up, whips around, and he locks eyes with the last person he expected to see tonight.

When Ramsey had mentioned his guy was some kind of hacker, he expected some nerd with stringy hair and glasses who hasn’t showered or seen the sun in weeks. But instead he’s met with a tan, slender beauty with pretentiously disheveled hair, tight jeans, and the most crisply pressed button up he’s ever seen. 

Angel.

Gavvy. 

Whatever. 

His mouth is dry because he hasn’t had any water in fucking hours, and for no other reason. 

He fights the urge to sit up straight and pull his hands from his pockets. Play it cool, Jones. Don’t make an idiot of yourself. “Well, you’re not what I was expecting.”

“What?” Gavvy says, “Thought I was gonna be some nerdy bloke?” 

The smile Gavvy gives him is goddamn radiant, blinding in a way he never knew a smile could be. He has to avert his eyes; it hurts to look. Nonchalantly as he can, he breaks eye contact and pretends the rain droplets trickling down the bus shelter glass are more interesting. “Nah,” he answers with a half-hearted shrug. “I was just expecting someone, y’know, competent.”

The only words Michael can describe the high pitched noise that comes from beside him are insulted and indignant. Had he not known there was a human man sitting next to him, he’d have thought the sound came from some large exotic bird. 

He slides his gaze over and is pleased to see Gavvy looking petulant and flustered. The flush on his cheeks could have been from the chilly air, but Michael knows it’s from embarrassment. “Well!” he exclaims, sounding absurdly scandalized. “I could say the same bloody thing!”

“You could,” Michael counters, “But then I’d leave and you’d be out of a bodyguard.” He leans over towards the other man, crowds his space and forcing him to shrink back. “So the question is: what’s worth more to you? Your ego, or the information Ramsey needs you to steal? “

Those green eyes go wide. Not in fear, but with wonder and awe. It’s not the reaction he’s expecting. He’s surprised to find that the lack of dread doesn’t disappoint him. If anything, it intrigues him.

A breathy sound escapes between slightly parted lips, and then Gavvy breaks into a grin that dances on the border between genuine and wicked. “Oh, I think we’re going to be very good friends.” He holds out his hand. “I’m Gavin, by the way. I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced.”

There’s something contagious about that smile, and Michael can’t help but return it. He leans back and takes Gavin’s hand, giving it a rough shake. “Michael.”

“Well, Michael boy,” Gavin says when their hands release. “We’ve got a lot of work to do tonight. Best we get started.” He stands up, pulls an umbrella from his bag, and pops it open before stepping out into the rain. 

It’s a pretty picture, Michael thinks. Something straight out of a movie. The gentle pitter-pattering of rain, the way it trickles off his umbrella. The hazy yellow lights of the streetlamps catch on the gold of his necklace and wristwatch, making him glint and glitter with every move. When Gavin realizes Michael has yet to stand up and follow him, he cocks his head to the side, and he fucking _sparkles_. “You coming, or what?”

Michael shakes his head to clear it. “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” he grouses, and he lifts himself from his seat. Nodding at the umbrella, he asks, “There room enough for both of us under there?”

Gavin shoots him a cheeky smile. “Nope!” he says. He spins on his heel, and begins to walk. He doesn’t bother to check if Michael follows. Smug bastard. As much as Michael would love to watch those hips until the world turned to dust around him, he does have a job to do. One that pays handsomely. 

He shoves his fists into his pockets and hunches his shoulders as he steps into the rain. It doesn’t take long for it to drench through his curls, and soak him to the bone. He shivers and grumbles unhappily as his glasses begin to fog up. He better not catch a cold after this.

Gavin leads him through a maze of narrow streets and back alleys until they stop across the street from a massive skyscraper in the financial district. In large letters, Michael sees the name of one of Burnie’s biggest business rivals. A knot forms in his stomach. “You’ve gotta be shitting me.”

“Problem, Michael boy?” Gavin asks, and he makes no attempt to hide the smugness on his face or in his voice. Bastard knows exactly who this building belongs to and what that means for both Michael and Burnie. 

The knot in his stomach unravels and the heat of rage begins to smolder in its place. He bears his teeth in a ferocious snarl. “Do you have any fucking idea how dangerous it is for me to be seen around here?”

“I suggest you not be seen then,” Gavin says with a shrug. As if that’s something that’s remotely possible with how many security cameras are around the place. There are at least two watching the front doors. Then, wordlessly, he hands over his umbrella.

The action barely registers to Michael, who takes it and holds it over Gavin’s head without a single thought. He’s far to infuriated by the entire situation as a whole to be concerned about something so trivial as an umbrella. He’s about to tear Gavin a new one when Gavin swings his bag around and pulls out a strange looking device. 

Now, Michael’s not a tech expert, but he likes to consider himself savvy enough to generally know what things are. The thing Gavin has in his hand? He has no fucking clue as to what that could be. Confusion temporarily overpowers the anger. “What the hell is that?”

Gavin waves the device around with a self-satisfied flourish. “This, my friend, is going to help us not be seen.” He presses his thumb down on one of the many buttons. The change is so subtle that Michael almost misses it. The little green lights on the security cameras blink green for a few moments before turning a solid yellow. Then, Gavin pulls out a blank key-card from his front pocket. “C’mon then. That should buy us some time.”

They cross the street and duck under the building’s awning. With a quick flick of the wrist, Gavin runs the key-card through its track by the door and he ushers Michael inside. “I take it that thing took down all the cameras?” Michael asks once he’s collapsed the umbrella.

“Clever boy!” Gavin smiles. “Set it on a loop. Pisspots keep their cameras on a series circuit. Knock one out, and all the other ones go with it.”

“Uh-huh,” Michael nods. Disabling cameras is all well and good, but that doesn’t mean there won’t be people patrolling the halls. “And what about the guards?”

“Well, that’s why you’re here, Michael,” Gavin says, swinging his pack back over his shoulder. “Do try to keep up, will you? Come on. This way, now.” 

Jesus Christ the more time Michael spends with this man, the more infuriating he gets. Yeah, sure, he’s pretty and every time he smiles it makes Michael’s heart flutter in a funny way. But the lack of regard to his own well-being is baffling. Gavin starts walking down a cold, dimly lit hallway without waiting for him to follow, and he understands why Geoff offered him so much money for this one job. It’s going to be a damn challenge to keep him from doing anything stupid that’ll get one or both of them killed.

Gavin stifles a cry as Michael yanks him back by the collar. “Not so fast,” he says, shoving past, and sliding a clip into his pistol. He’d much prefer his brass knuckles, which are a comfortable weight in his jacket pockets, but he knows better than to show up at a potential gunfight unprepared. He levels Gavin with a stern look. “Stay close.”

Gavin stares, wide-eyed and mildly startled, but he quickly recovers. “It’s down the hall,” he says. “I’ll tell you where to go.”

With a curt nod, Michael turns down the hall. He places each step carefully, with intent, and hugs close to the wall, following Gavin’s directions. Turn left here. Keep going straight. Second door on the right and then another left. Silence is key in situations like this. Never knowing who might be right behind the next corner or how close they are. He’s lucky, he supposes. He’s able to get the drop on the handful of guards they encounter. No death. Just the occasional broken and bloody nose and they’re locked in a supply closet where they hopefully won’t wake up until morning,

Michael chokes out the third guard as Gavin swipes his key-card to open the server room door. He drags the man’s limp body and shoves it unceremoniously behind one of the towering pillars of servers. They blink with variously colored lights, and he runs his hand across one of them. It’s amazing how so much information gets stored in these machines. Amazing how easily someone like Gavin can pull secrets out without having to harm a single hair on someone’s head or threaten their family. 

Gavin pulls his laptop and a series of chords from his pack and immediately sits himself down in front of one of the servers. Plugging the chords in, he sets to work, hunched over his computer like a gargoyle. Michael cocks his head to the side. He can’t help but imagine wings sprouting from his back. The bat wings he associates with gargoyles don’t quite fit. Too sharp, too skeletal. Gavin strikes him as having a need for decadence. The soft plushness of angel wings suit him much better. 

“Eyes on the hallway, love,” Gavin teases. He doesn’t look up from the code scrolling past on his screen, but there is a secret smile, one that Michael’s not sure he’s meant to see. 

He stands up straighter and takes to guarding the door, but makes sure to keep Gavin in his periphery. Silence lapses between the two of them for the first time since they’ve met. Despite the gentle humming and beeping from the servers, and the nonstop clicking of Gavin’s fingers flying away at his keyboard, the relative quiet makes him uncomfortable. 

He may not have known Gavin for very long, but from what little he’s seen, he the kind of person who rarely sits still. Always running his mouth, constantly in motion like it might kill him if he stops. It’s unnatural to see him so still. 

It feels dangerous. 

The realization knocks the breath from Michael. Disquiet gnaws away at him until he can’t bear it anymore. Eventually, he clears his throat, and asks the question that’s been plaguing him ever since their previous meeting. “So, uh — did you tell your boss?”

Gavin doesn’t look over, far too engrossed in what he’s doing. “‘Bout what?” he asks.

Michael shifts awkwardly on his feet, casting nervous glances Gavin’s way while still doing his best to keep watch on the hallway. “About how…y’know. How we…” he trails off.

Gavin straightens his back and tears his focus from his laptop in favor of staring at Michael. It’s a blank look, and Michael can hear the gears in his head turning. He blinks a few times, brows knitting together as he works through the question. Then it dawns on him. “What? About how we hooked up?” he squawks. It’s louder than he would have liked, and Michael aggressively holds a finger to his lips in a shushing motion. “Christ alive, Michael,” Gavin continues, this time much more hushed. He sounds utterly scandalized. “Why the hell would I tell Geoff something like that?”

“Oh, I dunno,” Michael snaps. “Fucking blackmail, maybe?” It comes out a little more frantically than he intends, but _fuck._ He’s literally been losing sleep over this, and here’s Gavin acting like he’s the crazy one.

The startled expression on Gavin’s face lingers for a few moments before it morphs into a fond look. Like Michael’s some little kid. Like Gavin thinks he’s fucking adorable. “Awww, Michael. If Geoff or I wanted to blackmail you, I wouldn’t have had to shag you in a club to do it. Besides, shagging someone the same sex isn’t good material. Not something to be ashamed of or something to shame someone over.”

“Then why…?”

Gavin turns back to his computer and gets back to work. “I was looking for a good time, you’re hot and also seemed to be looking for a good time —” he cuts himself off and frowns. Then he casts a nervous side glance at Michael. All previous confidence seems to leave him, and suddenly he looks guilty. “Unless you weren’t?”

“No!” Michael answers quickly, trying to reassure him. “I mean, yes. I mean…” He rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t normally do shit like that, y’know? Like, I do, but it’s not a lot. I just…I saw you working for my boss’ friend and I got paranoid, I guess?” God, he sounds like a fucking idiot, doesn’t he? “Fuck, I dunno, it’s dumb. But uh — yeah, no, you uh — you made that night a lot better.”

A burning flush crawls its way up his neck to his cheeks and ears. He’s thankful for the dim lighting of the room. Gavin bites back another one of those shy smiles, and he’s struck with the desire to kiss it. “Right then,” Gavin says, drawing his lip between his teeth. “Nearly done here. Should be ready to go soon.”

This time the silence is less tense. More comfortable. Whatever anxious energy that had been wracking Michael’s nerves seems to have disappeared. Now, in its place is a calm. Not the kind that comes before the storm, but the kind that comes with the intention of doing a job and doing it well. He’s going to earn his fifteen-thousand tonight, and maybe if he’s lucky, he’ll get Gavin’s phone number too. 

He jolts some time later at the sound of heavy footfalls coming down the corridor. He ducks down, back pressed against the wall. Gavin has gone tense. He heard it too. “Are there any shift changes happening ?” Michael whispers.

Gavin, wide-eyed in alarm, shakes his head. 

Michael growls, and slides over so that should someone open the door, he’ll be hidden. He slips his hands into his pockets and through the grip of his brass knuckles. Gunshots now are the last things they need. This is the most successful stealth mission he’s ever been on. He’s not keen on fucking it up now. 

The door nearly crushes him as it flies open. “Hey, Reggie, you’ll never guess what I just heard.” There’s a beat of silence as the guard stares dumbly at the intruder sitting cross-legged on the floor, plugged into the servers. “Who the fuck are you?”

Michael would have had him if the door hadn’t creaked when he forces it shut behind them. The guard whips around, turning red in confused anger. “Who the fuck are —!” 

He doesn’t let him finish. Lunging for the guard’s middle, he tackles him to the ground. Or at least he tries to. The guy’s sturdier than he looks. He braces himself in time to only be pushed back by Michael’s effort. He grunts in exertion and slams his fists down on Michael’s back, nailing him right between the shoulder blades. Michael releases him. He tries to pull away, but the guard grips his hair and shoves his head down as he lifts his leg up. With a sickening wet crunch, the guard’s knee makes contact with Michael’s nose. 

Michael staggers back, brings his hands up to clutch at it. Blood flows freely between his fingers, dripping onto the shining linoleum floor. _Suck it up, Jones._ he tells himself. _You’ve had worse._ He shakes his head, bouncing on the balls of his feet. A vein throbs in his jaw as he works it, and he grins, flashing menacing pink stained teeth. “Bad fuckin’ move, buddy,” he says, wiping some of the blood onto his sleeve. “Now I’m mad.”

He takes a swing but the guy blocks it and counters with his own. They exchange jabs back and forth for a few turns. But Michael gets bored of that soon enough. He’s not here to fight fair. He’s here to win. He fakes out with a punch while really trying to take the guy’s knees out from underneath him. It’s a trick that’s worked with almost every single opponent he’s gone up against. He may not have any proper training, but he knows that gravity is everyone’s biggest enemy. 

Apparently this guy knows that too. 

There’s a brief window where Michael can easily be pushed off balance. The guard takes it, and Michael goes crashing to the ground. His breath is knocked out of him with a pained _oof,_ and his head smacks against the ground hard enough that he sees stars. Disoriented and mildly nauseous, he groans where he lay, unable to get up. Then the guy is on top of him. He straddles Michael’s waist and starts laying into him.

Or at least he’s going to.

There’s a loud _crack._

Michael freezes. So does the man above him. Honestly, he’s in enough pain and there’s enough adrenaline coursing through him that he could have been shot and not noticed at all. They stare at each other in confusion for a moment. And then blood begins to trickle out of the guard’s mouth. He heaves and coughs. A massive red bubble erupts from his mouth before bursting. Gross gurgled moans escape his throat as he struggles to breathe. His lungs fill with fluid as he drowns in his own blood. His limbs weaken and he collapses, the entirety of his weight falling on Michael. 

Michael wheezes as he’s crushed, but he’s strong enough to shove the writhing body to the side. He sits up, frantically searching the room for Gavin. The guy is still chocking wetly beside him.

There, kneeling on the ground on the other side of the room, is Gavin. His hands are extended out in front of his body, clutching a golden pistol. The barrel is still smoking. His hands tremble as he lowers them and he stares at his gun in terrified awe. 

Under different circumstances, Michael would be more than willing to help him tough the fact he’d just killed someone, but they really don’t have the time. The shot wasn’t silenced. Who knows how many guards heard it. 

Too many is the answer. 

Michael rushes to his feet and over to Gavin. He takes the gun from him and helps him up. “Hey, look at me,” he says, palming Gavin’s cheek and directing his gaze to meet his. “Did you get everything you needed?” The panic in Gavin’s eyes clears a bit and he has enough sense to nod. “Alright, good,” Michael says. “I need you to pack up your shit. We need to go. Now.”

As if on cue, the goddamn lights go red, and an alarm starts blaring. He hurriedly helps Gavin shove everything into his backpack, and then they’re sprinting down the halls. Guards cry out behind them as they run. He reaches out blindly for Gavin. Their hands find each other, he grasps those spindly fingers, and he books it as fast as he fucking can. 

He throws his shoulder against the front door and is silently glad that it opens rather than shattering. Gavin stumbles behind him. It slows them down, but not enough to be a real hinderance. 

Mercifully, it isn’t pouring anymore. Just a fine mist that cools their skin as they run. Michael glances over his shoulder, and he can’t help but smile at the sight of his Angel so close and their pursuers so far behind. Gavin huffs and puffs behind him, obviously not used to this kind of legwork, but he returns the smile regardless. Bright and dazzling. 

Michael has to resist the urge to toss his head back and howl into the air, high and giddy on adrenaline. They duck and weave through various alleyways, trying to throw the guards off their trail. But the bastards are persistent. They dart down a sidestreet before taking cover in a connecting alley. Michael pokes his head out. The guards are still pretty far behind, but they’re still coming. Their flashlights bob and weave as they move. 

He wipes the sweat and blood off his face with the back of his hand. “Fuck,” he says breathlessly. “These guys won’t fucking give up, will they?”

Gavin is leaning against the rough brick wall, panting breathlessly. His chest heaves as he gasps for air, but the look he gives Michael is sure. “Kiss me.”

“What?”

“I said bloody kiss me, Michael,” Gavin repeats.

“I really don’t think now is the best ti—”

Gavin grabs him by the lapels of his jacket and pulls him in. Their lips crash together roughly, teeth clicking together. Michael hisses in pain, but is too swept up in the feeling of Gavin’s lips against his to pull away. He’s not sure who deepens it or if it’s a mutual thing, but then there’s tongue involved, and he’s counting Gavin’s teeth. His hands slide down Gavin’s chest and grip his waist as he presses a leg between his thighs. It tastes salty and metallic. His nose is still bleeding and he vaguely thinks that he’ll have to get it set once they’re in the clear. 

He doesn’t notice the guards passing them by until Gavin stops kissing him and they break apart. They hold their position, listening as the footsteps grow more and more distant. Their chests press together as they catch their breath. It mingles between them, puffs of damp air warming their faces despite the chill. 

“Been waiting to do that again,” Gavin breathes. His eyes linger on Michael’s lips, which tingle pleasantly in their kiss-swollen state. 

Gavin pushes himself off the wall and twines his fingers between Michael’s. A cheeky grin and a playful tug is all it takes to get Michael moving again. This time Gavin leads. Their feet hit the pavement and they send their giggles and laughter skyward as they make their way back to Geoff Ramsey’s office. 

They run together through the streets of Los Santos, Michael’s bloody, dirty hand gripping pure gold.

* * *

If there’s one thing Michael’s roommate is known for, it’s refusing to beat around the bush. “Jesus Christ, you need to get out more,” Lindsay says when she catches him moping on the couch at eight o’clock on a Friday night. 

He flips through the channels, remote held limply in his hand. “My social life or lack thereof is none of your goddamn business,” he grumbles. It’s been weeks since his and Gavin’s little information heist, and he hasn’t heard anything from the other man. Nothing from Ramsey either. Just business as usual with Burnie.

He needs to move on. That would be the smart, healthy thing to do. If they’re going to call or text him again, they’re not going to do it so soon after a job. There’s got to be some amount of cool down time. Got to let things blow over first. He just has to be patient. 

But he doesn’t want to be patient. All he wants is to chase that lighthearted feeling, euphoric buzz he gets whenever Gavin’s around. 

Lindsay sits down next to him on the couch and gives his shoulder a friendly shove. “Look, I get it,” she says. “You have a work crush. It happens. But you can’t just mope around waiting for the next chance to work with him again.”

“Easy for you to say. You work with your girlfriend all the time,” Michael scowls. “And I’m not moping!”

“You are,” Lindsay says, poking his chest. “And every time your phone pings, you trip over yourself to check it.”

He doesn’t even have time to deny that one. His phone buzzes on the coffee table and his attention snaps to it like he’s a goddamned dog who just heard the word “walk.” Point taken, but he could do without the smug look on her face. He scowls as he leans forward to check it. Just another promotional email from his food delivery app.

Lindsay gives him a pitying look when he slumps back into the couch cushions and crosses his arms. “C’mon,” she says, gently squeezing his shoulder. “I’m going out with Meg and one of her friends tonight. I’m sure they won’t mind if you tag along.”

He shrugs her off with a pout. She means well. She always does. But the last thing he wants is sympathy or pity. “I’m not fucking third-wheeling your date.”

“There’s already a third wheel. You’re making us a fully functional sedan,” she says. “It’ll be fun. We’ll dress up nice. Go to an overpriced restaurant. Eat some fancy food and drink some fancy wine. The works. Just like old times.”

He can’t help but smile at that. Old times. He and Lindsay used to do shit like that when they were a few years younger and still _together_ together. Every time they scored big on some job, they’d treat the other to a night on the town. It usually ended with something on fire, but the chaos was kind of the whole point. To live like rich people, playing at high society, and making actual rich peoples lives hell, if only for a night. He mulls it over. “How much silverware can I steal?” he asks, as if the answer is a deal-breaker, as if he hasn’t already made up his mind.

“As much as you can carry,” Lindsay laughs. “Now, c’mon. Suit up. I told Meg I’d meet her in an hour.”

It doesn’t take him terribly long to slip into the single suit he owns. He’d gotten the thing on Burnie’s insistence, for the odd occasions where he needed Michael to accompany him to fancier establishments. He hasn’t touched it in almost a year now. It’s a little small, especially around the arms. He’s bulked up a fair amount since he started working. He fiddles with the tie and he wonders if he can convince Burnie to finance him purchasing a new one.

When he’s done, he knocks on Lindsay’s door. “Need any help?” he asks. It’s another part of their old ritual. He may not be as good at applying eyeliner as she is, but he likes to help where he can. She drags him into her room and sits him down beside her at her vanity.

His possessive side misses the days where she used to get dolled up just for him. Thankfully, the part of him that values their friendship is more powerful and is just happy to see her happy. Maybe in another time in another place they could have worked out. A twinge of longing goes through through him as he helps her pick out a shade of lipstick. It’s immediately followed by a churning sense of dread and fear. What if he’s doomed to destroy all the good relationships he has? Burn them to the ground like his house in New Jersey until there’s nothing but ashes and he’s all alone. 

He’s not too great at the whole friends and family thing.

“You’re spiraling,” Lindsay says. Her voice cuts through his thoughts, clear as a bell and like a life-raft he desperately clings to as it pulls him back to the present. She frowns at him, brows furrowed in concern, and gives his hand a squeeze. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And he believes her. Lying may be second nature to her by now, but he knows she’d never lie to him. Not after everything they’ve been through. Not after time and time again she chose to stick by him, if not as a lover then as a friend. He owes her more than he could ever admit, but he’s confident in the fact that she’d never use that against him. “I know,” he manages to choke out.

Her phone pings and she swipes the screen. “C’mon,” she says as she stands. “Lets get you out of your own head and have some fun.”

The walk from their apartment to the restaurant isn’t awfully long. He’s grateful more for Lindsay’s sake than his own. Sure, his shoes aren’t the most comfortable things in the world, but he’s not the one in heels.

They find Meg standing outside the restaurant. She waves when she spots them, and Lindsay bolts to greet her with a hug and kiss. Michael ambles behind her, hands in his pockets. When he’s close enough, Meg lets go of Lindsay, and sweeps him into a hug too. “It’s good to see you again, Michael,” she says, pressing a small kiss to his cheek. “It’s been too long!”

He nods in agreement. After exchanging a few pleasantries, Lindsay asks, “So where’s this friend of yours?”

“Hm? Oh, he’s inside getting us our table,” Meg answers.

“You didn’t make a reservation?” Michael asks. Because this ritzy as hell place is for sure one of those places that has a months — if not years — long waitlist. 

“No need,” Meg shrugs. “Gavin has connections and some strings he can pull to score us a table.”

The name catches Michael off guard. Gavin. No. It can’t be. Los Santos is a massive city with roughly four-million people living in and around it. There must be hundreds, _thousands_ , of Gavin’s wandering around. His Angel Gavin, and Meg’s Gavin probably aren’t the same person. 

Right?

A familiar, slim man dressed to the nines wearing glimmering, golden jewelry steps out of the restaurant.

Goddammit. 

“Lad and ladies,” he says with a grand sweeping gesture of his arms and a wink. “Our table awaits.”

It takes almost all of Michael’s self restraint to keep from yanking Gavin into some corner and asking him what the fuck he’s doing here. He’d only get some smarmy answer if he did. _Having a nice dinner with my friends, Michael, what does it look like?_ Or something to that extent. Probably with a light tap on his cheek to really drive home the playful condescension. 

He does his best to mask the irritated scowl on his face as Gavin leads them inside. A very timid looking waiter greets them inside and leads them through the restaurant towards their table. The glitz and glamour of it all is almost blinding. Light bounces off crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceilings, and everything is either red or gilded. There’s already a bottle of wine sitting on the table when they reach it, and Michael wonders what exactly what kind of sway Gavin had in order to pull something like this off. This place doesn’t seem like Ramsey’s kind of business venture. Too opulent. Too swanky. 

They take their seats and the waiter hurriedly passes out the menus. “Thank you so much for choosing to dine with us, Mister Free. Tonight’s special is a duck pâté with —”

Gavin lifts his hand and cuts him off. “That will be all for now. We’ll call for you when we need you.” He doesn’t even look up from his menu. Just waves the man off with a flick of his wrist. Michael almost feels bad for the guy, but then he remembers that if he weren’t dressed in his monkey suit and sitting across the table from Gavin, the waiter would have turned his nose up at him with a snide grimace. The only thing keeping this goddamn waiter from thinking he’s better than any of them is his fear of Gavin. 

No actual violence. Just words.

Gavin takes it upon himself to uncork the wine and pour it into everyone’s glasses. First the girls’, then Michael’s. “So, not to sound rude or ungrateful or anything,” Michael says as he takes his glass from Gavin’s hand, “but how’d you manage to score a table here on such short notice?”

Gavin winks at him and taps his nose before pouring his own glass. “Trade secrets, love.”

“His parents own the restaurant,” Meg says. She lifts her glass and clinks it against Lindsay’s. “Cheers.”

“Really?” Lindsay asks after taking a sip of wine. “That’s so cool!”

Gavin shrugs. “Well, mummy and daddy are so rarely around to meet my friends. This is the closest I can bring you to them.” He brings the glass to his lips, but Michael doesn’t miss the displeased twist of his lips. It’s quick; blink and you miss it, and when he brings the glass down, he’s trained his features back into that easy smile. It doesn’t meet his eyes, and there’s nothing but hard contempt boiling under the surface. 

It’s a look Michael’s familiar with. One he’s seen in the mirror so many times before. There’s nothing quite like good old fashioned parental resentment. 

Conversation moves on as they look through their menus. General catching up, “Oh, how have you been?”, and “What’s new?” Mindless small talk to fill the silence. Or at least that’s what everyone else did. It takes most of Michael’s brainpower to decipher the text in front of him. So much of it is in French — or at least he thinks its French? — and what little English he can pick out doesn’t make a lick of sense. Where’s the goddamn kid’s menu? Oh, how he longs for the good old days of chicken tenders and french fries and crayons to do word searches with. 

He’s distantly aware that the waiter had returned and that everyone else was giving their orders. His frustration is mounting, and when someone’s toe taps firmly against his shin, he snaps up to see four faces staring at him expectantly. The waiter flinches away when he makes eye contact. “I — uh, your order, sir?”

Michael frowns, squinting his eyes as he looks back at his menu. The effort of pretending he’s simply considering his options is a valiant one. He’s so helplessly lost. Oh god, there’s a second page, how did he not notice that. Fuck him. Normally he’d have no problem making exasperating the workers at haute cuisine restaurants, but for some reason, now he’s nervous of making a fool of himself. He’s about to let fate decide and just order whatever option he thinks he’ll butcher the least when the menu is snatched from his hands. 

“He’ll have the pollo alla parmigiana,” Gavin says, handing it over to the waiter. 

Their server’s brow creases and looks like he wants to say something. He swallows it down when Gavin raises an eyebrow, daring him to tell him “no.” The smile the man gives them looks more like a grimace, and he scribbles the order on his little pad of paper. “Of course, sir. Anything for Mister Free’s friends.”

Once the waiter has scurried off, Michael narrows his eyes suspiciously, and stares Gavin down. “What did you just order for me?”

Meg laughs and pats his shoulder. “He got you a chicken parm.”

“I didn’t see that on the menu,” Lindsay says. 

“It’s not,” Gavin shrugs. “But I know they can make it. Besides, what are they going to do? Refuse me?”

It’s exactly the kind of behavior rich people exhibit that drives Michael up the wall. The invincibly entitled act. Yet, somehow Michael can tell this is less about treating the waitstaff like garbage for the sake of being rude, but rather more about sticking it to Gavin’s parents. It doesn’t stop the flush from creeping up his neck. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Gavin scoffs. “Bloody hell, Michael. You looked like you were about to have an aneurysm. Had to put you out of your misery one way or another.”

The conversation quickly moves on once more, and this time Michael’s able to contribute. They talk about things normal twenty-something-year-olds talk about. New movies coming out, the most recent episode of a TV show they’ve all been watching. Meg and Lindsay mention wanting to check out a new store that opened downtown. Dumb shit of no consequence that is decidedly _not_ about work. Tonight is an escape for all of them, and no one wants to even mention their most recent job or what their bosses are doing. 

Their dinner arrives, and really, it’s an appetizer’s worth of food. It was something that disappointed him when he started dicking around with rich people cuisine, but now he’s come to appreciate the artistry involved. Sure, it’s not filling, but it sure as hell looks pretty. Marinara sauce swirls delicately around the plate, spiraling around a tower of breaded chicken that’s garnished with basil. It’s the most pretentious looking chicken parm he’s ever eaten. And it’s fucking delicious. 

Nearly an hour later the server returns to take their plates and asks about desert. Michael’s a little shocked when Gavin declines and tells the server to fetch the bill instead. 

“Who’s going to foot it this time?” Meg asks. 

There’s something about the way she smiles and asks the question that makes Michael think there’s something he’s missing. This is only confirmed when Gavin looks Michael dead in the eye. “Well, seeing as how Michael’s the newbie among us here, I think he should be the one to do it.” He waggles his eyebrows mischievously. 

The server reappears with the little leather sleeve and places it on the table. “Yeah, yeah, alright fine,” Michael says. He regrets his dismissive tone as soon as he opens the fold and sees the number at the bottom of the receipt. 

_Jesus fucking Christ._

No fucking way. No fucking way their meal cost almost five thousand dollars. Holy shit, just because Gavin’s parents own the place doesn’t mean they get a price break either, apparently. Or — oh, God, even worse — this price _is_ with some sort of family discount. Fuck. The color drains from his face, and he’s fucking glad he hadn’t done anything with the money Ramsey paid him for protecting Gavin a few weeks ago. 

“Well, while you come to terms with the cost of haute cuisine, I need to use the ladies room. I’ll be right back,” Meg says. He barely registers her voice and when he looks up to respond, she’s already gone, lost somewhere in the crowd of well dressed men and women. 

Gavin yawns and stretches his arms a few moments later. “Had a bit much to drink, yeah? Gotta take a leak too,” and he stands up as well. He takes his sweet time though, whistling a tune with his hands in his pockets as he ambles off towards the restroom. 

It’s just him and Lindsay now, sitting in amicable silence until the others get back. Or at least that’s what he hopes. But then she decides to check on Meg. “She’s been in there a while. I’m gonna go make sure she’s alright.”

And then Michael is alone, sitting awkwardly at a table in a restaurant with a bill he can barely afford. He fidgets with the silverware, knee bouncing impatiently under the table cloth. His friends had better fucking hurry. 

They’re gone for an awfully long time. Frantically, Michael scans the room for them — the bright red of Lindsay’s hair, or the purple of Meg’s; the blinding flashes of Gavin’s golden jewelry — but finds nothing. Worse still, he accidentally makes eye contact with their server, who shoots him a curious look that quickly hardens into a resigned frown. Oh, God, he’s coming towards him to pick up the bill.

Then it hits him. 

They’re not coming back. 

They’re dine-and-dashing. 

Excitement sparks in Michael’s chest. Lindsay’s words from earlier that night echo in his mind as he stands up quickly. He snatches the oyster knife Gavin had been using during dinner, not for any practical reason, but more because why the fuck would he need one in his daily life? Well, actually nevermind he can think of a few reasons, but none of them are particularly relevant right now. 

The server opens his mouth to shout something, but Michael doesn’t stick around long enough to hear it. In an inspired move, he flips the table, because why not, and darts towards the entrance. He ducks and weaves through the tables, plowing past other waiters and knocking glasses of champagne and wine off their trays. Voices shout and clamor behind him, and he smugly ruins a couple’s dinner as he slides over their table, dragging their food to the floor. 

He tilts his head back in laughter and he comes crashing through the entrance, startling the line of patrons waiting to get inside. An expensive car comes screaming around the corner, stopping abruptly in front of him. Lindsay and Meg wave at him from the back, and the passenger side door flies open. “Get in, son!” Gavin shouts, laying on the horn. 

With a wicked grin, Michael clambers into the car. He doesn’t have time to close the door behind him before Gavin slams his foot on the accelerator. The girls scream in delight behind him as his hand flies up to grip the handle above his head. The door is forced shut as the vehicle gains speed. 

Gavin drives like a goddamned animal. He treats road signs as more of a suggestion than a law, and he absolutely ignores anything physically painted on the road. Lane markers? Straddling them. No turn on red? Gavin blows through them without bothering to slow down. They make it onto the highway and it’s a fucking miracle he doesn’t bounce over the median and drive into oncoming traffic. A cork pops off a bottle of champagne in the backseat and Gavin reaches around to take a glass as it’s poured.

“Watch the fucking road!” Michael shouts, yanking the wheel to steer them away from a pileup. He has little interest in adding to the number of totaled cars on the side of the road, and even less interest in getting into a crash. 

“Oops, sorry, Michael,” Gavin says. Champagne sloshes out of his glass, landing right on Michael’s suite, and he makes a faint disappointed sound.

“For fuck’s sake, give me that. Focus on driving,” Michael snaps, taking the drink from him. He downs it and amends his statement, vaguely wondering when the hell _he_ became the responsible one. “Actually, no. Focus on _not fucking crashing_.”

“Awwww, spoilsport!” Gavin pouts. He spares Michael a side glance and sticks his tongue out at him, but he does keep his eyes on the road from then on. One of the girls connects to the car’s bluetooth and starts blasting music. A sudden gust of air makes Michael look back, and he sees them standing through the sun roof, singing and dancing along. 

To Gavin’s credit, he’s a bit more careful now that his passengers are doing dumb shit too. He’s still driving recklessly, speeding whenever possible and changing lanes at the latest possible moment, but there’s enough competency there that Michael’s no longer stressed they might crash at any given moment. Dare he say, he actually begins to enjoy himself. It’s been far to long since he’s been on an honest to God joyride, and although he much prefers to be the one behind the wheel, he can’t deny that he misses it. 

He even feels brave enough to unbuckle his seatbelt and lean out the window, singing along at the top of his lungs with Lindsay and Meg as they tear down the city streets.

Lights flash by, blurring into a whirlwind of color that leaves his head swimming. His curls bounce messily in the breeze and he has to set his glasses aside out of fear of them flying off his face. The car thrums and pulses around him from the music and he loses himself in the pleasant vibrations. 

The clock on the dashboard reads just past two in the morning when Gavin begins to slow down and drive like a normal person. Lindsay and Meg have calmed down, sleepily leaning against each other in the back seat. Michael has long since returned to his seat, safely buckled in place, content to hum along to the quieting music and watch buildings flash by. 

Meg yawns in the back seat and hugs closer to Lindsay. Her eyes fall shut. “Take us home, Gavvy,” she says. 

“Sure thing, love,” Gavin answers, turning easily down the next street. 

Michael’s genuinely not sure if Gavin’s a better driver than he had led him to believe earlier. Maybe he is. Or maybe he’s just more comfortable now that there are fewer cars out on the road. Or maybe he’s forcing himself to focus more as the late night exhaustion sets in. 

Maybe it’s a bit of all of the above. 

A few minutes later, he pulls into the garage of a penthouse apartment. The girls stumble clumsily out of the car, Michael and Gavin following them, making sure they get back to Meg’s apartment safely. Lindsay kisses him goodnight at the door, a chaste peck on his cheek, promising she’ll call him sometime tomorrow. And with that, he and Gavin are left standing in the middle of the hallway. 

“So, where do you want to go?” Gavin asks. 

“Excuse me?” Michael asks, because fuck, he’s tired and he really doesn’t have the energy for any more adventures tonight. 

“Where do you want to go?” Gavin repeats with a shrug of his shoulders. “I could take you home to your apartment. Or you could come back to my place.”

The unspoken invitation isn’t lost on him. It sends his heart racing, and although the air around them grows heavy and oppressive, all Michael can hear is the drumming of his heartbeat in his ears. Gavin won’t make eye contact with him, choosing to look anywhere but towards Michael. He plays it off as nonchalance, but even a blind man could find the tension drawing tight between his shoulder blades. 

Michael’s mouth goes dry, and his stomach flips excitedly. Maybe he has the energy for _one more_ adventure tonight. 

“Lead the way,” he says.

* * *

The night Michael sleeps with Gavin, he’s only pleasantly buzzed, and fully aware of his surroundings. The pillows are soft and plush beneath his head, the sheets silky smooth to the touch, and Gavin’s lips wrapped around his cock are the most heavenly things he’s ever experienced. 

His hand rests in Gavin’s hair, playing with the soft strands, and gently guiding him as his head bobs up and down the shaft. He groans, eyes falling shut as his tongue works its way along his length. A delicate, wet touch that slides smoothly over him. There’s an obscene popping noise when Gavin eventually pulls off. He laps playfully at his slit before pulling himself up, and heaving himself on top of Michael’s body. 

Michael lets out a faint _oof_ sound as the air is pushed from his lungs, but it quickly devolves into breathless laughter, and a soft, “fuck.”

Gavin’s hands move up his chest, dexterously undoing the buttons. Impatiently, Michael shifts to help him pull his shirt off, rendering him completely naked. Gavin — still clothed, the bastard — grins and settles down on top of Michael’s chest and kisses him. It’s slow and lazy, but those sneaky hands wander down.

Michael whines at the light touches as Gavin starts to gently jack him off. Gavin takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue diving into Michael’s mouth, their lips moving together heatedly and messily. 

Michael’s hands come to grip Gavin’s waist. “You gonna let me do any of the work?” he asks when they part for air. 

“I know what I want, Michael,” Gavin says. He twists his hand that makes Michael gasp and his hips stutter. “You gonna let me take it?” There’s a challenge in his voice, a playful lilt to the question. A constant in whatever their relationship is, something Michael’s coming to terms with.

Michael grunts, forcing his hips to still and regain at least a scrap of composure. “Depends,” he hums. With a sudden movement, he tightens his grip on Gavin’s waist. The other man squawks in surprise when he flips them over. “Think you can take everything I can give?”

Gavin blinks owlishly at him for a moment before breaking out into a wicked grin. “S’pose there’s only one way to find out,” he says. His hand comes to rest at the juncture of Michael’s neck and shoulder and he pulls him down for another kiss. This one is rougher, more impatient. Teeth nip and bite at soft, swollen lips. Michael growls, something low and thundering in his chest. It vibrates between them, making Gavin shudder, as Michael starts peeling away his clothes.

Whoever came up with the idea of layering articles of clothing could fucking choke. Preferably on their own tie. Or cravat. Or whatever the fuck they want to call the goddamn noose needed to complete the outfit. 

He rips Gavin’s shirt open, buttons flying across the room. “Micheal!” Gavin exclaims. “I liked that shirt!”

“You have five just like it,” Michael says, tugging the shirt off Gavin’s arms and mouthing along his neck. He sucks a particularly harsh bruise just above the collar bone, and Gavin whines, forgetting all about his ruined shirt. He kicks his pants and underwear off in a flurry of movement, and he gasps when Michael drags his teeth over the new bruise. “Condom and lube?” Michael asks. 

“Bedside table,” Gavin hisses. “Bottom drawer.”

Michael leans over, and for some reason it’s the assortment of toys packed away with the lube and condoms that make him blush. Arousal pangs in his gut at the mental image of seeing Gavin stretched open on some of the dildos. He desperately wants to play with them someday, when they have more time. Reduce Gavin to a blubbering, drooling mess on the sheets without even touching him. Or — his face flushes deeper at the thought — Gavin using the toys on _him,_ teasing him until he’s begging to come. 

God, he wants that. Wants Gavin. Wants everything. 

Hands swat at his back, drawing his attention. “Hurry up, Michael,” Gavin whines impatiently. 

Michael scoffs. “Needy baby,” he says. He settles over Gavin, seating himself between his spread legs, admiring the way his cock — red and leaking — curves and smacks against his belly. Liberally slathering the lube over his fingers, Michael massages around Gavin’s asshole. The tense ring of muscles begins to relax under his touch. He presses one finger in, and Gavin lets out a contented sigh. His hips rock against Michael’s hand, urging him to add more fingers.

“Get one with it.”

Michael smiles fondly and shakes his head at his impatience. When he adds another finger, he slows his movements. The scissoring motion he uses is teasing and gradual. He feels along Gavin’s walls, stroking his insides and looking for the sweet spot that will make him cry out. A few pumps in, he curls his fingers just right and Gavin’s back bends into a beautiful arch. He lets out a shout, and his hips cant up, cock twitching, fucking himself further onto Michael’s fingers. 

Fuck that’s hot. 

Slathering on some more lube, he presses a third finger in, maybe a little hastier than he should have, but Gavin has no objections. He moans at the stretch as Michael works him open enough to take his cock. “Michael,” he breathes. “Michael, Michael, Michael, _please._ ” 

“Yeah,” Michael pants. “Yeah, okay, hang on.” 

Gavin whimpers when Michael removes his fingers. A series of pitiful sounds spill from his mouth as Michael opens the condom packet and rolls it down his dick. Slicking himself up with a bit more lube, he finally, _finally_ guides the head of his cock to Gavin’s hole, and presses inside. 

They both groan as Michael sinks in, fully sheathing himself. It’s just as good as last time. Hell, it’s even better. There isn’t the overwhelming heat crawling just beneath his skin. Just a pleasant warmth pooling in his stomach with every touch and thrust. Gavin clings to him and their lips find each other as Michael rolling his hips at a slow, steady pace. 

And then all of a sudden he’s on his back and Gavin is on top of him, guiding his cock back inside and rocking against him. Too impatient to wait for Michael to give him more, he takes what he wants instead. The sight of him bouncing on his cock leaves Michael breathless. His tan skin glistens in the low golden lamplight, head tossed back as he chases his own pleasure. Michael watches him move, watches him touch himself, enraptured. 

He’s beautiful. 

Heavenly. 

Angelic. 

With a low groan, Michael grabs his hips and thrusts up into him. A hoarse shout escapes Gavin’s lips and his eyes snap open. Their gazes lock onto each other, and they start fucking in earnest. For every time Michael cants upwards, Gavin meets him on his way down. One particularly powerful one sends him forward onto Michael’s chest. The new angle makes him gasp. He writhes in Michael’s strong arms, pushing back. His moans and whimpers pitch higher and higher, and he reaches between them, taking his own cock in hand. 

“Ohhhh, Michael,” he moans, “I’m gonna —”

“That’s it, Gavvy,” Michael huffs. He can feel Gavin’s precum pooling on his belly, rolling down his side along with beads of sweat. “That’s it, come for me.” He fucks him through his orgasm, walls clamping tightly around his cock and seed shooting messily onto his chest and stomach. Gavin’s thighs shudder and tremble on either side of him, twitching each time something brushes against his oversensitive skin. Michael himself doesn’t last much longer. Holding Gavin tight, he pounds into him until he finds his own release. He spills into the condom with a ragged groan.

They lay there for a few moments, catching their breath. Then, gingerly, Michael pulls out. Gavin rolls off of him, settling in on the other side of the bed. He smiles, expression pleasantly fucked out and faintly flushed. “That was bloody top.”

And Michael’s not entirely sure what that means, but it sounds like a good thing. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Yeah, it was.” Pulling off the condom, he ties it off and pads over to the adjacent bathroom to throw it out. He takes a moment to clean the jizz off his chest and belly with a washcloth, and returns to bed. Getting onto the other side of the bed, he pulls the covers over his body. They bask comfortably in the afterglow, rolling onto their sides to face each other. 

“Hey,” Michael says after a while. Gavin’s eyes had begun to droop shut, but they open at the sound of Michael’s voice. “I never asked if you were alright. After you killed that guy.” Not exactly the sexiest pillow talk, but it’s been bugging him since it happened. 

“Hmm?” Gavin yawns. “Oh, yeah, I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“I just, I dunno, you seemed shaken by it, is all.” A dark cloud passes over Gavin’s face, that carefully crafted cheerfulness disappearing in an instant. “Was that the first time you killed someone?”

Gavin scoffs. “I’m not completely inexperienced, Michael. I’ve killed my fair share of people.” He shrugs a shoulder. “Usually not in a room full of valuable information, but still. Done it before.”

Michael frowns. “I mean, even so. It’s not an easy thing to do, and it takes its toll.” God knows he still thinks about all the people he’s killed. More of them on Burnie’s behalf than not.

“I said I’m fine. Alright?” Gavin snaps, teeth bared in a snarl. It’s the most aggressive expression he’s seen him make. 

“Are you sure, I —”

“Go to sleep, Michael.” His tone leaves no room for argument. Without another word, he flips over onto his other side and turns off the light. 

Guilt settles in Michael’s stomach. Well, at least he wasn’t kicked out. He takes off his glasses, letting them rest on the other side table. Facing the wall, he pulls the blanket over his shoulder and closes his eyes. He’s drifting off when Gavin’s voice, so soft and quiet, and vulnerable in the darkness, pulls him back. “I was scared of losing you.”

Michael’s brows furrow. “What?”

Gavin heaves a sigh. “When I shot and killed that guard. I was scared of losing you.”

Slowly, Michael rolls over and turns his head to face Gavin. He still has his back to him, but he’s obviously curled in on himself. “You hardly know me,” and fuck it’s a little weird to be saying that. They’ve only met a handful of times. The first and most recent times have involved sex. They really are strangers, aren’t they?

“I know,” Gavin huffs. “But I want to. Know you that is. I want to have that chance. Don’t want some smegging _guard—”_ he spits out the word like it burns his tongue “—to take that from me.” He flips over so that he’s facing Michael again, still curled into the fetal position. His eyes glisten in the faint light coming in through the window, and he shuffles closer. Michael draws him into his arms, hugging him tight to his side. 

The sniffles Gavin makes are endearingly pitiful, and Michael is touched that he trusts him enough to be so vulnerable. It isn’t easy. God knows, he knows how hard it is to just cry in front of someone. Small tremors wrack his body as he bites back his sobs. “I’m sorry,” he sniffles. “I’m not usually like this.”

“It’s okay,” Michael says, because, fuck, it _is_ okay. He gently rubs Gavin’s arms, strokes his hair, fingers brushing lightly over his skin. Reaffirming contact. He’s here. It’s okay. He’s not going anywhere. They remain like that for a long while, cocooned together in the blankets until Gavin finally stops his trembling. 

“Y’know,” Michael says. “We worked pretty well together. All things considered. Think Ramsey will employ my services and pair me up with you anytime soon?” He asks it more as a joke, something to distract Gavin from getting lost in his own head, because he know how much that sucks. 

Gavin hums, tracing little patterns along Michael’s ribcage. “I might have overheard him talking with Burnie on the phone about lending you to us for a bit.” He pauses. “Maybe permanently.”

Michael blinks. Goddamn. Well that’s the first he’s heard anything about that. “Really?”

Gavin nods. “I mean it’d be up to you, course. Just an option. Geoffrey thinks you’d be better suited for our line of work than Burnie’s.”

“You mean crime,” he deadpans. 

“Well, yeah,” Gavin says. “But more specifically demo. I mean, he knows you’re a good shot and he’s seen the aftermath of your fists. But he also knows what you’re really good at is demo-work.”

Michael narrows his eyes. He’s never told anyone about his brief stint in construction. It wasn’t the proudest time of his life. Still living with his parents after barely graduating high school. They thought it’d be a productive outlet for his destructive energy. Blowing shit up while also building something new. Joke’s on them after what he did to their house. He almost asks how Geoff and Gavin know about that, but then he thinks better of it. Gavin’s a hacker. He’s probably got more dirt on him than his background in construction.

“He’s got some big plans for this city,” Gavin continues. “Thinks you’d be a good addition to the crew he’s building.”

Michael thinks for a moment. “Who else is he bringing on.”

“Your’s truly, of course,” Gavin answers. He snuggles closer, pressing himself tight to Michael’s side. “But he’s got eyes on an old friend of his. Jack. Best driver in Los Santos. Can fly bloody anything. Then there’s BrownMan. Sniper out of Liberty City.”

The names are entirely unfamiliar to Michael. He’s only vaguely aware of the world of hitmen — what he assumes this BrownMan to be. For the most part they’re more concern to the head of Burnie’s security team. Michael’s just an attack dog. But a few of the more infamous names rattle around in his head. BrownMan isn’t among them. Odds are he’s very good at what he does, or he’s new. Possibly both. And this Jack, if that even is their real name, sounds more or less like a normal person. “That’s it?” Michael asks. 

“Well…yeah,” Gavin says. “For now anyways. He’s putting feelers out. If he gets _really_ lucky, he might convince the Renegade to join up.”

Michael blanches. “Like… _The_ Renegade, Renegade?” He asks. “FIB’s most wanted, Renegade? Alleged kill count in the hundreds, Renegade?”

“That’d be the one.”

“Jesus.” A driver, hacker, demolitionist, sniper, the fucking _Renegade_ _,_ and Ramsey leading them. It’s a pretty good, diverse skill set. Assuming personalities don’t clash too horribly, they’d make a damn good team. “He’s serious about forming like, an _actual_ crew, isn’t he?”

Gavin hums a sleepy affirmative. “What do you say, Michael boy?” He asks with a yawn. “You gonna join up?”

He’s silent for a moment. It’s a lot to think about. A lot to consider. His job with Burnie is stable and pays well. But it’s also getting boring. Ramsey’s offer, if it’s ever formally made, is risky. Pay probably won’t be great at first. It’ll be fucking dangerous for sure. But he’ll get to blow stuff up, get his hands dirty. And, more selfishly, he’ll get to work side by side with Gavin. 

“We’ll see,” is the answer he settles on. “I’ll have to talk some things through with both Burnie and Ramsey first.”

* * *

Six weeks later, Michael hands in his letter of resignation to Burnie. Ramsey had contacted him with an offer: better pay, the chance to destroy shit, and the prospect of ruling the city. “Anything you want, you can get, provided you’re willing to work for it,” he had said. “Cars, money, power, all of it could be yours.”

“What makes you think _you_ can guarantee that more than Burnie can?” Michael had asked. They both knew he was going to say yes, but this was all part of the song and dance they had to go through.

“I won’t keep you on a leash, for starters,” Geoff had responded. “Like I told Gavin, your limit is your own hubris. You’re young. The world is yours to grab by the dick and jerk off until it gives you what you want. I can give you more opportunities to do that than Burnie can.”

“I’ll have to think about it,” Michael said. “I’ll call you with my answer.”

He said yes, of course. 

He currently stands with Gavin out on the balcony of Geoff’s penthouse, beer in hand. They’re not the only ones there tonight. Three others, aside from Geoff, mill about the place, drinking and talking about what the future has in store. A tall, redheaded woman, Jack, sits beside Geoff, talking quietly with him, drawing out plans on a napkin. Already planning their very first heist.

The man in the purple hoodie, Brownman — Ray as he introduced himself — sits upside down on the couch, a DS console in one hand and dart in the other. He’s been wiping the floor with the man in the skull mask — the Renegade, Los Santos’ most notorious — from increasingly ridiculous positions. There had been a moment of tension earlier that evening when Ray had made a trick shot, winning a game he hadn’t even been playing to begin with. 

“Bet you can’t do that again,” The Renegade had challenged. 

Ray took the darts from his hand and lazily threw one at the board. “Loser blows me,” was all he said. 

They’ve been playing for the past two hours.

It’s bizarre. Usually crews are very impersonal. A business venture meant to make as much money for the boss as possible. He’s been around his fair share of gangs, both in Los Santos and back home. But none of them have ever felt like this. They’ve only just met, but there’s a certain ease and camaraderie. Even the Vagabond, a man known for being a lone wolf, has fallen into the laughing and heckling. It makes Michael feel warm inside, like for the first time, he feels like he belongs somewhere.

This must be what family feels like, he thinks. It feels good.

He leans down to capture Gavin’s lips into a kiss.

This must be home.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on tumblr @peantutbutter!


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